Bound to Die

A quarter moon paled in the midnight sky as the intruder sliced the glass in the shape of a circle. He'd done this before; always at night and only at homes that bordered the woods. The better to hide me with, he snickered.

The glass let go with a pop.

Quiet as a mouse he slid it from its resting place, and hid it along with the cutter, behind a hedge at the back door where his little black bag was stashed. He leaned in to pick it up. The doctor is in.

His heart-rate quickened as it always did when he slipped his black-gloved hand through the opening in the window and turned the lock. It gave way with the tiniest of clicks but to the intruder, it sounded like thunder. Not one mistake, he warned himself. This one has to be perfect.

The door made not a creak. Cat-like, he slid around it and into the kitchen. There was no fear of a dog; his Georgia peach didn't have one. Smiling with this knowledge, he reached out to extinguish the nightlight that glowed from above the stove. The darker the better, for he knew his way around--he'd studied her for months and the stupid twit never saw him coming.

*********************************

Her name was Camille Kramer. She was a thirty-something romance novelist who volunteered her services on the Internet--a do-gooder who reviewed manuscripts and short stories at a website for up-and-coming authors.

He was a former army commando and an amateur writer who called himself The Man in Black. His dark poetry and ominous short stories all bore the same themes: kidnapping, rape, torture, and murder. And though he wanted the world to know his stories were true, a non-fiction classification could bring about unwanted attention, the kind that could put him away for the rest of his life, or worse, get him the needle.

He met Camille when she had the nerve to stick her nose into his port. She gave him a scathing review and said his writing was predictable, repetitive, and unrealistic. Unrealistic! he fumed.

He had smacked the reply key on the email she'd sent and let his fingers do the walking. "Who in the hell are you to criticize my work! And why are you poking your nose around in my business? I don't recall asking you for your two cents worth. So mind your own business, bitch!"

The Man in Black folded his arms and sat back, waiting. Camille's failure to apologize set him off and became the driving force that fueled his fire to find her.

*********************************

It took the training of a green beret, which he was, to pinpoint her location. And then it took the work of a madman (which he'd never considered himself) to stalk her.

And now he glided over the kitchen tiles and set the little black bag on the counter. He took a right at the hallway. Her bedroom was the second door on the right; the bathroom was the first. He spied her slippers beside the tub. Good girl, you took your evening bath, he grinned.

He moved stealthily down the hall and peered at her from the doorway. His eyes, accustomed to the darkness, focused on the steady rise and fall of her chest. Not a sound! he warned himself. She's all yours now, don't blow it.

He crept closer, ever so slowly, cautious of the floorboards and their predisposition to creak. He wanted to be directly above her and close enough so that he could see his own reflection in her eyes when she opened them. When he was in position he lifted a lock of her strawberry-blond hair and tickled her nose with it. "Wakie uppie, Cammie," he whispered.

And then he waited, smiling with anticipation.

Camille's eyes fluttered in an attempt to focus. It took a moment for her brain to register the fact that she was not dreaming and the man in black, who was leaning over her smiling wickedly, was not her imagination. Instinctively she batted at the intruder and felt a sliver of skin wedge itself under her middle fingernail.

He touched his brow and felt a droplet of blood. And then he pounced. In one svelte move he was above her, straddling her, pinning her to the bed. "You can't fight me, Cammie. I'm much too strong for you," he teased.

He leaned closer, his eyes meeting hers, his lips nearly touching her mouth. Sneering, he whispered, "But hey, if you feel you're up for a fistfight, let's go. I wouldn't mind smashing your face to a bloody pulp."

Camille knew she was no match for the man in black who outweighed her by a hundred pounds. But still her mind scrambled for some plausible way to defend herself so that she might come out of the situation alive.

He took her silence as defeat and stroked her hair while her body trembled beneath his. "That's it Cammie girl...settle down...it's okay now," he eased, his voice a whisper.

No need to have her screaming bloody murder, he thought. However, it wouldn't matter if she did scream; no one could hear her. Keeping her calm was a personal preference. He couldn't stand it when they cried and carried on, whimpering and sniffling, snot running down their faces.

Besides, he was in no hurry; he'd cleared his schedule just for her. They had the whole night to themselves and he had plenty of games to keep them busy. The thought raised his heart rate and made him hard. He needed to see her, to touch her.

"I'm going to offer you a choice, Camille." His breath was raspy, shaky. "I need you to lie very still, like a rock. If you feel you can't do that for me then your other option is death. Now, I don't really want to slice your throat and have you spurting blood all over me. So, make your choice: do you want to behave yourself and lie very still or would you rather just die now and get it over with?"

He hadn't previously shown her a knife but Camille could not be sure he didn't have one. She was not willing to just fold up and die. Not yet. There was always the possibility he might make a mistake and leave her an opening to escape. Maybe he planned to let her go when he was finished with her. There was no way to know for sure. And so she chose the lesser of two evils. "I'll lie still," she whispered. The words nearly choked her.

*********************************

With both hands he lifted her head to meet his grinning face. "That's my girl!" He planted a hard fast kiss on her lips. "I had a good feeling about you, Cammie!" In his excitement he spoke loudly and directly--blowing his breath over her face and into her mouth.

His breath was disgusting and his kiss left the taste of bile in her mouth. The combination made Camille want to vomit.

He hadn't noticed. He was caught up in the moment, the moment where he realized that they liked this little game of his. There were a few, though not as many as he would have liked. But that small handful of girls who obeyed him so quickly, like Camille, they were the lucky ones.

There was another test to perform in order to know for sure; he met her eyes.

His sudden shifts in emotion--from anger to excitement and then to quiet--terrified Camille. And those black eyes boring into her made her want to scream. But she remained steady and as calm as her pounding heart would allow.

And he saw it; it was there in those doe-brown eyes. This time things are going to be different. He eased her head to the pillow with one hand and fanned her hair about her face with the other.

Camille did not speak or respond in any way. She was fulfilling her end of the bargain to remain still. But then he yanked her hair and she grunted.

Fuck. I knew it; she's just like the rest of them.

"Your fucking hair is like a rat's nest! Don't you ever brush it?"

He did not wait for a response. In one movement he was off the bed and standing over her. He tore the blankets from her body. And then his face changed again, it softened.

"I knew it!" he squealed, childlike. "You're wearing the same nightgown your virgin wore in that prissy romance novel you wrote. It even buttons from your throat to your toes!"

Ashamed, a tear welled in Camille's eye. She blinked it back. He would not have the privilege of seeing her cry. She closed her eyes and held her breath, waiting for him to tear the gown away.

He did not rip and tear. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the uppermost button. His nimble fingers worked the tiny pearls and when he reached her ankles, he spread the gown open. He sucked in his breath at the sight of her. "Damn girl, those are some sweet plums you have there."

Camille wanted to cry.

He leaned over her quietly and went back to playing with her hair. He adjusted the locks so they swept over her shoulders and came to rest upon her breast. "Now it's right," he offered, satisfied with the vision he had created.

Camille did not intend to move a muscle but her body shivered from the draft.

"High-beams!" His voice was that of an excited child again. He reached out and twisted her nipples. Their immediate response filled his heart with joy while the stiffness in his pants grew larger.

His gaze traced a slow path from her breasts to her pubic region. His breathing became erratic again, shaky and raspy. Camille closed her eyes and begged her mind to take her away to that tropical island in her meditations. Pale blue water, white sand, marshmallow clouds, lemon yellow flowers...

The man in black reached out to touch her most private area. "Well trimmed. I like that."

He parted her legs and leaned in for a closer view. "I half expected cobwebs and bats," he laughed. "But this is nice." Without warning, he spit on his fingers and plunged them inside her.

The intrusion elicited a sharp gasp from Camille and for that she wanted to slap herself. Quiet, you idiot! she silently scolded.

*********************************

His trance was broken. See! She's just like the rest of them! He removed his fingers but held his position. And then the headache came. "NO!" he screamed.

Camille flinched; a whimper escaped her lips. She caught a quick glimpse of him. His face was twisted, his head cocked, as though he was listening or waiting for something. His appearance made her flesh crawl. She was sure he was about to kill and she did not want to see it coming. So she closed her eyes tightly in hopes of going back to that peaceful place in her mind.

Damn it! Don't do this to me! he screamed silently, battling the demons inside his head. I don't want to wait! I want her now. No! he pleaded. Just once I'd like to enjoy one while she's still warm. Why do you have to torment me this way?

When the man in black hadn't killed her, Camille dared to open her eyes again. His dark eyes were darting to and fro while his head shook violently from side to side. His lips were moving but he didn't utter a word. Terrified, she closed her eyes and held her breath, hoping this too would pass.

All I want is to have my life back! I want to hold a woman who can hold me back. I need to feel her moving beneath me, not just laying there all stiff and cold! Please!

It was too late; the hardness in his pants was gone, replaced by a limp noodle. "Fuck! I hate you." He raised his fist.

Camille didn't see it coming but when his fist connected with her nose she saw stars, millions of them dancing on a black sky. The bone snapped with a thundering crack.

Blood flooded Camille's throat, choking her. She gagged and coughed. Just when she thought she might die from asphyxiation, the man in black scooped her up in his arms and lifted her to a seated position at the edge of the bed. He pressed a corner of the comforter to her broken nose, stemming the flow of blood.

The searing pain incapacitated Camille, muddying her thoughts. Her vision blurred from the blow and from her swelling eyelids. She prayed to God they'd not swell closed; she needed her sight if she stood any chance at all of survival. That much she did know.

He stood up in front of her and peeled back the bloody cloth from her nose. She wanted to thank him for being gentle but she dared not make a peep.

"Sorry about that Cammie, it wasn't your fault. If you'd like me to take the pain away, I can. Would you like that?"

"Yes please," she nodded.

The man in black held both hands prayer-like to Camille's nose. With one fluid motion he snapped the bone back into place. The pain ripped through her face like a bullet. She nearly passed out.

He knew she might and that's why he wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly. After a moment or two he cooed, "There now...it's all right...it feels better now...see?"

After the initial shock had passed, Camille was surprised to find that she did indeed feel much better. Ironically, she found herself thinking that she owed him one for coming to her rescue. The thought vanished quickly when she reminded herself that if the twisted fuck hadn't broken her nose in the first place, he'd have had nothing to rescue her from. Now she had blood running down the front of her and a face that felt as though she'd been whacked with an iron club. And it was all thanks to him.

*********************************

"Can I go to the bathroom?"

He gave his knee a happy slap. "Of course you can. And kudos to you for asking."

He wrapped an arm firmly about her and walked her up the hall. She felt claustrophobic in his tight grasp, nearly to the point of a panic attack. He liked the way her head rested against his chest and thought what a handsome couple they'd make on a dance floor all nestled up in each other's arms. It brought a song to mind and he sang, "Let me call you sweetheart; I'm in love with you. Let me call you sweetheart; say you love me too."

He stopped at the entrance to the bathroom. "Would you like me to come in with you?"

Camille's mind raced; she wasn't sure how to appropriately respond to his question. If she said no, would he beat her? If she said yes, would he watch her use the toilet? She mustered the words, "If you don't mind..."

He didn't let her finish. "You go ahead. I'll get you some ice for that nose."

Camille crossed the threshold and he was gone. She quickly relieved herself and then stepped up to the sink to wash the blood from her face, neck, and chest. Her eyes looked like slits from all the swelling but she could see, and that's all that mattered. Still her hands trembled and her face ached. How in the hell did I get myself into this? Tears welled. She tried to blink them away but one escaped. She caught it with her fingers. Keep your shit together Camille, don't lose it now.

With the water running she rummaged through the medicine cabinet hoping to find a weapon. Nothing. Not even a nail file. She picked up the bottle of Lortab, leftovers from a root canal. Immediately, her nose began to throb as though begging for the painkillers. I can't afford to cloud my thinking, she told herself. So she put the bottle back and buttoned her nightgown.

*********************************

When she was finished the man in black was waiting for her at the door. He handed her a baggie full of frozen peas. "This won't hurt as much as ice."

It burned, actually. But it was a good burn.

His arm closed around her like a steel trap. "We've got some work to do," he said, leading her up the hall.

When they reached the kitchen Camille caught sight of a black bag on the counter. It reminded her of a doctor's bag.

He led her on, past the living room and to the den where a large maple desk took center stage. He whistled and ran a hand over the gleaming wood. "When I sell my first novel, I'm gonna buy a desk just like this one."

Camille didn't know what he wanted her to do so she waited for instruction.

"You take the pilot's seat," he offered, pulling up a second chair for himself. "We're going to pay a little visit to the writer's workshop. So get clicking."

Camille did as she was told and double-clicked the blue e for Internet Explorer. She typed the writer's workshop URL into the address bar and within seconds she was at her home page.

"Broadband. I'm impressed. All I have at home is dial up." His eyes took on that faraway look again, sending a shiver up Camille's spine.

Should she apologize for having an expensive service? "I just..."

He waved her words aside. "Bring up that romance story you wrote about the chick that goes forward in time," he demanded.

She acquiesced.

While the story loaded he glanced around the den, taking in the many quartz crystals she had collected over the years. "Why do you collect this shit?"

"They comfort me."

He rolled his eyes. "What a waste of money."

When the story was ready, he scooched in close enough that his body pressed firmly against hers and he took control of the mouse. She held the peas to her right eye in the hopes of reducing the swelling enough to better see him in her peripheral vision.

His finger followed the words on the screen as he read silently and quickly. "Look at this, Camille. She falls asleep one night and wakes up the following morning in 2035. Let me ask you, who's being unrealistic now?"

Before she could answer, he scrolled madly through more pages. "And what's this shit about 'The pen is mightier than the sword.' Doesn't that sound cliche to you?"

He didn't wait for a response; he scrolled through more pages and stopped when he came to the scene where the hero scoops the heroine into his arms. "And you call MY work predictable."

"I'm sorry, I..."

He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. "Go to my port now."

Camille clicked on the "author search" button and when the empty box appeared, she glanced at the man who was dressed from head to toe in black, and she asked, "What's your pen name?"

He ran his hands over his body and said, "What the fuck...you can't even put two and two together?!"

She raised her brows.

"Duh! The Man in Black."

At that moment it hit her, and she knew. He was that perverted guy who wrote about necrophilia.

Quickly, Camille ran a search for The Man in Black and found his portfolio. His breathing changed, became deep and heavy. He took control of the mouse and clicked on "The Doe in the Headlights," a story about a predator who causes minor accidents on rural roads. The victims were young females traveling alone. He used a taser gun to render them helpless and then he tortured and murdered them, before raping them post mortem.

"This story is much more believable than yours." He leaned closer and raised his eyebrows. "Let's hear what you have to say."

"I don't..."

"Come on now, Cammie. It's your turn, critique me."

Camille cleared her throat. "A taser? Why not use chloroform?"

"Geez, Camille, wake up." He said, rapping her skull. "Chloroform IS cliche. Now, a taser, that's unique. They never see it coming."

He took control of the mouse again and clicked on The Doctor Is In, a poem about a murderer and his bag of tricks. "Take a minute to read that. I'll be right back," he said, standing.

*********************************

As soon as he left the den Camille clicked the "Who's Online" button. The webmaster was there. Thank God!

With trembling hands she clicked the "send email" button next to the webmaster's name and typed: "This is not a joke. I'm being held captive in my home. He's going to kill me. Call 911. Please hurry!"

Immediately after clicking "send" Camille raced back to The Man in Black's port. She'd read this before. It was one sick poem about a madman and his rape kit, and the atrocities he had performed with it.

"Camille," he said softly.

She swiveled her chair to face him. In his hand was a gun and it was pointed at her. She gasped. He pulled the trigger.

Something that resembled a chameleon's tongue shot out from the gun on a straight course for Camille. She had no time to react. It connected with and stuck to her left shoulder.

It was not a bullet; it was an electrical charge that sent Camille's muscles into convulsions. She had no control over her body as it twisted and jerked. She flopped off the chair, smacking her left brow on the desk before landing in a heap on the floor.

The only things that worked were her eyes and her ears. He crossed the room, the black bag in hand, and stood over her, cackling. "Man! I just love that deer in the headlights look! You see it coming but you can't do one fucking thing about it!"

He set the bag and the gun on the desk and lifted her to her feet. The convulsions were gone but her muscles continued to twitch slightly. He righted the chairs and set her down with a plop.

"Give it another minute, you'll be fine. In the meantime I want to show you something." He reached for the black bag.

"You collect quartz," he said, nodding in the direction of her collection. "And I collect toys."

He opened the bag and removed a towel which looked as though it once was white but now it was stained purple-black, like dried blood. Camille's heart pounded like that of a scared rabbit.

He laid the towel on the desk and reached inside the bag again. "Let's see...what shall I show you first?"

After digging around for a moment, his eyes grew large and he smiled wickedly. "Oh, I know! How 'bout this!"

She could see an object that appeared to be stainless steel. He dropped it on the towel and said, "Do you know what this is?"

It was speculum; an instrument used by doctor's to hold open the vaginal canal during cervical exams.

Camille's mouth went dry. "Yes."

"I love this toy. You just shove it in, open it up, and BINGO, you can see everything!"

He felt around inside the bag and came out with a scalpel that he placed next to the speculum. "This guy might be little, but boy is he sharp."

Again he dipped into the bag. "This is a stun gun. It's different than a taser gun, which is what I used on you earlier. Here, let me show you."

Before she could react, he touched the gun to Camille's chest and squeezed the trigger. Her brain scrambled, her muscles contorted. Even her facial muscles twitched and jerked. She lost complete control of her functions and fell forward. Before she hit the keyboard, the man in black caught her and held her tightly.

The stench of burning cloth and skin gagged her but she could not vomit. She was paralyzed, as though she'd had a stroke.

"Don't worry," he said, pressing her back into the chair where he held her with one arm. "This too shall pass."

Camille tried but could not speak or move. All she could do was sit and watch.

"While we're waiting, let me tell you a funny story about these three little toys. I've never written about it but I always wanted to.

"There was this woman, you remind me of her. Anyway, I spent the night at her house and we had some fun. But the best part was when she started bawling and pleading for her life. She told me she wasn't ready to die, that she'd never had a child and more than anything in the world she wanted to give birth to a baby, so would I please let her live.

"That gave me a great idea. So I stun-gunned her and while she was down for the count; I used the speculum to open her up. I stretched her cervix so she'd know how it felt to give birth. She screamed bloody murder and I told her, 'See what you missed!' And then I used the scalpel to remove the cervix, which I set on that towel right there, and I gave it a quick zap with the gun. Man! That thing danced all over the place like a Mexican jumping bean. It was amazing!"

Camille wretched and vomited. Yellow-green bile spewed on the desk, just missing the keyboard. It ran over the edge and dripped like rain to her bare feet.

The man in black rubbed her back. "There now...it's okay...get it all out."

Slowly the den came back into focus. Camille took a few deep breaths to gather her composure. Finally her muscles relaxed and when she tried them out by squeezing her fists, they behaved. This is it, she told herself. If you don't form a plan now, you're bound to die.

He leaned close, his eyes meeting hers. "Feeling better now?"

Camille nodded.

"Good." He gave his knee a slap. "I'll get you a towel so you can clean up this mess, and then we'll finish our game. Okay?"

He did not wait for an answer.

******************************

When he left the room Camille's eyes raced wildly over the desk looking for something, anything that might suffice as a weapon. When she heard his footsteps she grabbed the first thing within reach, a Bic pen, and held it tightly in her fist.

"Here we go," he sing-songed.

Camille rolled backward in the chair, giving herself plenty of leg-room.

When he leaned over her with the towel, Camille gathered every ounce of strength she could muster and lunged forward, plunging the pen deep into the man in black's eye socket. Fueled by fear, she did not stop until only the cap protruded. The remainder of the pen wedged deep within his brain.

The man in black screamed and threw his hands up defensively. In one move Camille shoved him backward and flew out of the chair. He scrambled to save himself but all he grabbed was air. It was too late anyway, his brain was already dead, it just took a moment for his body to realize it. Finally, as though in slow motion, he fell onto his belly with a thud. The only sound came from the gurgle of blood that spilled from his eye and pooled about his face and neck. Quickly, the beige carpet turned crimson.

Camille sidestepped quickly around him and grabbed the eight pound amethyst quartz from its resting place on the end table. She raised it high above her head, ready to smash his skull should he twitch a single muscle. A flash of red and blue caught her eye in time to see a half dozen patrol cars speeding up her lonely road. The webmaster had come through for her.

Camille let out a sigh of relief and looked down at the dead man in black. "See, the pen is mightier than the sword!"

With that, a nervous laugh escaped her. "How's that for cliche, you twisted fuck?"